Folding the Flocks

Francis Beaumont (1584–1616) and John Fletcher (1579–1625)

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,

Fold your flocks up; for the air

’Gins to thicken, and the sun

Already his great course hath run.

See the dew-drops, how they kiss

Every little flower that is;

Hanging on their velvet heads,

Like a string of crystal beads.

See the heavy clouds low falling

And bright Hesperus down calling

The dead night from underground;

At whose rising, mists unsound,

Damps and vapors, fly apace,

And hover o’er the smiling face

Of these pastures; where they come,

Striking dead both bud and bloom.

Therefore from such danger lock

Every one his lovèd flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,

Lest the wolf come as a scout

From the mountain, and ere day,

Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty, thievish fox,

Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourself from these,

Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,

And deserve your master’s love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers

And soft silence fall in numbers

On your eyelids. So farewell:

Thus I end my evening knell.